Campfire Condolences

I let the soot stain my fingertips ashen grey, pinching the corner of a splintered log as I toss it further into the metal pit.

I imagine how tired the flames must be. Most refer to a fire as raging, as angry as a hellhound biting at the confines we try haplessly to keep it within.

But would a fire not burn so bright, not burn so fiercely that it wishes to rest? Because as the flames turns to ash, the wood burnt something terrible there squats it's assailant, blowing on its ruin and trying to catch carcass to cardboard.

I try to clean up its disarray with my own, and it feels as though helping a comrade to its feet around the shrapnel of stainless steel.

I tend to this fire as though its a tangible peace of me, tend it solely until it shows sign of exhaustion, and smile when it lets out a relieved sigh as I douse it before bed. Watching it twirl and dance above the sky top of the tent, feeling just the bit lighter for it all.